Love in a Major Key
by Winam
Summary: Jane and Rochester share their love of music.


Love in a Major Key

By Winam

The afternoon was miserable – a persistent drizzle having descended along with – as my wife told me – a dense fog. With nothing else to do, we sat by the comforting hearth while she read aloud to me.

Jane read from a book of poetry she had found in the meagre pile salvaged from Thornfield. The poems were poignant, but one could only have so much of heart-wrenching odes to lost loves – particularly when one's lost love had been found. Jane seemed to share my sentiment, for after one poem she snapped the book shut. But instead of finding other employment as she usually did, she remained quiet and still – so still that I thought she had slipped from the room.

"Jane, are you still there?"

I heard her shift in her seat – she had not vanished just yet.

"What is it, my darling?" I asked.

She sighed. "All this fog – it reminds me of the day you returned to Thornfield."

"Is that so?" I smirked. "Do you at present feel an inclination to cast a few more spells, fell a few more horses, not to mention grumpy, old masters?"

"There was no magic involved that day, I assure you." she said teasingly, "_I_ leaned down to tie my laces when you came bounding in. _You_ were probably riding much too fast and should have paid more attention to the road."

"Well, if you do not own up to felling horses then at least admit responsibility for the fog, rain and mud – without a doubt they were your doing!"

She laughed softly, the sound of pure bliss.

"Well, _I_ am not the only one capable of magic." she remarked. "Do you remember how you used to sing and play for me?"

I replied that I did, recalling our blissful month of engagement at Thornfield, when I used to gain great enjoyment in performing for her.

"You were a kind of magician, conjuring up worlds with your music." she mused, "I adored listening to you. Why do you not sing now?"

"Because I sound little better than a bleating sheep," I grumbled, "My voice probably shot to pieces from little use. And as for playing the piano – even if I could manage with one wretched hand, I have never attempted to play blindfolded before. And besides, there is no instrument in the house."

"But there is an instrument."

"Where?"

Then I recalled the ancient piano my father stowed away in the back parlour, a decrepit old thing that I had never touched.

"If you mean the piano in the back room then forget it. I doubt that a single key is in tune."

"Perhaps I am being optimistic, but I would still like to hear how it sounds. Shall we investigate?"

She led me to the back of the house, seated me at the piano and then sat down beside me. I started when she struck a chord – a chord that was too perfect by far.

"You witch! You have had it tuned, have you not?"

"I have not touched it, I swear."

"Perhaps not you, but someone certainly has. Admit it!"

She giggled, betraying her complicity. "I might have obtained a little help."

"Sly girl! But please continue, I implore you."

And complying with my entreaty, she began to play.

**

I played a simple ballad. "One that even _you _can manage." I pronounced.

The ballad had an uncomplicated but moving melody that befitted this simple room, this simple moment between us. Edward listened to it quietly, attentively, until the last note diffused in the air.

"It is lovely to hear music again." he sighed. "That tune certainly brings back memories."

As it also did for me – memories of my childhood, of the nursery, and of Bessie.

"My nurse at Gatestead used to sing me this song before I went to sleep." I divulged, "It was one of the few moments when I felt wanted in that house – possibly why I remember the song so well. When I finally learned the piano at school, it was the first song I successfully figured out on my own – without the music mistress's knowledge, of course. _She_ thought that I was learning the scales of C-sharp and E-flat!"

"Those are happy memories." he said quietly. "I too learned the song in childhood. Except that it was my mother who taught it to me."

He looked grave, leading me to wonder what memories he held of his mother.

"You have hardly mentioned her before."

"No, she died when I was Adèle's age. I believe she was fond of me – she always indulged me, let me play out-of-doors, taught me the piano – but my father constantly berated her preference for me, said that her doting would never make me a man. He preferred Rowland, who took after him in most respects and followed him like a puppy, while I – I knew where I was not wanted."

He paused for a moment, and then said sombrely, "I remember Mother teaching me that song on a balmy summer's afternoon, when Father and Rowland was away someplace. We sang it together, and I was indeed happy. Just as well because by the following summer she had died… So Jane, you weren't the only one to lose a family."

I wrapped an arm around his back, pulling him close.

"Well, we have each other now." I reassured him. "We shall form a decent, loving family, one filled with music since _you_ shall teach our children how to play the piano."

"And filled with art, since you shall teach them how to paint."

"Not to forget nature since we will both teach our children how to appreciate water-beetles!" I laughed.

To my relief, he laughed jovially with me. "That bodes well for the future, doesn't it? Yes, it bodes very well… But back to the present – I might see how I manage on the piano. Perhaps you may help me?"

He pressed a key or two with his able right-hand to find his bearings, while I readied my left-hand. I watched him dextrously play the melody and then followed with my accompaniment. We stumbled and giggled every now and then, but gained fluidity with every iteration. When we had succeeded in playing the entire piece faultlessly he began to sing in his fine, rich voice, a voice that evoked a deep yearning, a pure blast of emotion within me.

He sang,

"An thou were my ain Thing,

I would love thee, I would love thee,

An thou were my ain Thing,

So dearly would I love thee.

I would take thee in my Arms,

I'd secure thee from all Harms,

For above mortals thou hast charms,

So dearly I do love thee.

Of Race divine thou needs must be,

Since nothing earthly equals thee,

By Heavn's I beg you'll favour me,

For dearly I do love thee.

My Passion, constant as the Sun,

Flames stronger still, will ne'er have done

Till fates my thread of Life have spun,

Which breathing out, I'll love thee."

When the song ended, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him ardently.

"You _are_ a magician, Edward." I whispered. "A conjurer of great beauty."

He rubbed his cheek against mine, and replied, "It is only because you inspire me, Jane – you are my source of beauty."

Then he took my face in his hands and kissed me with the same passion he imbued into the song – rousing kisses that left us both gasping.

"Shall we retire, Mrs. Rochester?" he asked breathlessly – expectantly.

And stroking his dear face, I answered, "Mr. Rochester, I think we shall."


End file.
